


The Same Old Scene

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Doughtie, bored gentleman, finds a new amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Old Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ Community smallfandomflsh's "jaded" challenge.

            Doughtie had hoped for adventure when he came to CountyAntrim, but the task that faced him was more like bullying than soldiering.  In the hours that stretched between the constant harassment of the locals and the occasional betrayal of some Irish chieftain, the occupying English were drawn to idle pursuits: whoring, ale and the devil's picture book.  Doughtie, always prudent, detested gambling – as for the rest, both the whores and the taverns were cleaner in London.  
            Doughtie was perhaps too clever for his own good.  Everything he tried he excelled at, but nothing ever held his attention for long.  He would have returned to London, but feared that he would be equally bored at home.  Then he met Francis Drake.  
            Here was a man who knew how to make his own adventure!  Perhaps it was true that he was a social upstart, a poser.  The other gentlemen at arms snickered behind his back at his self-importance.  Doughtie thought it as foolish as sneering at a bull in rut for his table manners – and just about as wise.  For whatever else they might say, Drake had a power, a natural authority which came not from titles and bloodlines, but from his own unstoppable nature.  Drake was dangerous.  Doughtie found it exciting.  
            After a few weeks of acquaintance, they were constant companions.  One night, Doughtie realized that Drake's tales had changed in tone, no longer boastful but confessional.  For the first time he noted the flushed look of adoration on Drake's face.  _He's in love with me_, he thought, and then, _The game is afoot_.  He lowered his eyes and smiled shyly.  
            Doughtie was, after all, a master seducer, of both men and women.  He preferred men simply because the risks were higher.  It also seemed that their hearts were made of sterner stuff – or at least they feigned so.  He loved the conquest, but hated the inevitable tears when he grew tired of his latest paramour.  Well, he most certainly would not have that problem with Drake.  
            They walked home, reeling with intoxication in the chill night air.  "Thou hast been too long silent, Thomas Doughtie," said Drake.  "Did I offend thee?"  
            "Nay, Francis," said Doughtie, placing a hand on Drake's shoulder in reassurance, then purposefully stumbling a bit so that Drake reached out to steady him.  Their eyes met.  Doughtie allowed his lips to part a little, the gaze to linger a moment too long before he averted his eyes in hasty embarrassment.  
            Drake came to a stop.  In the distance, they could hear a drunk Englishman singing, but the streets around them were deserted.  "Lovest thou me, Thomas?" asked Drake.  
            "Aye," said Doughtie reflexively.  The question took him by surprise; his male lovers generally avoided such absurd sentimentalities.  Indeed, he thought that many of the women insisted upon it not from any real sense of emotion, but because convention and vanity demanded it.  But he could see from Drake's expression that the mariner was completely sincere.  It was so damned inappropriate that Doughtie nearly laughed.  
            Drake kissed him; it was like kissing a whirlwind.  Never had Doughtie been possessed with such passion, and he felt his knees go weak beneath him.  His heart throbbed, his cock throbbed, he linked hands with Drake and followed him in silence back to the inn.  The minute the bolt had slid in the door behind them Drake was upon him, shoving him back onto the bed.  Fingers undid buttons, buckles, removed inconvenient lace.  Doughtie's splendid clothing soon lay in an unceremonious heap.  He thought to protest, but Drake's lips and hands were everywhere, and soon he had more than wrinkled silk to preoccupy him.  
            Drake retrieved some oil and smeared it onto his own cock.  It was only then that Doughtie realized that he was the one to be taken.  Not that he minded – he had been both active and passive in such sports – but it was shockingly unconventional for a commoner to take such liberties with a gentleman.  The lower ranking party was supposed to submit – didn't Drake know that?  A sudden heat coursed through Doughtie's limbs.  Yes, he would allow this.  It was decadent.  It was delicious.  
            Doughtie lowered himself upon Drake's cock.  The mariner was built for pleasure, built for endurance.  Doughtie groaned with the strain of it, but soon discomfort gave way to delight.  He tried to move, to ride his new stallion, but Drake's strong hands grasped his thighs, immobilizing him.  He would have to go at Drake's pace.  
            The excitement was more than he could bear, and Drake seemed unaware, or unconcerned, by his dire condition.  He reached his hand towards his own cock.  Drake knocked it away.  "Slattern," Drake chided.  "Must I tie thee?"  
            Doughtie had played those games too, with a few bored aristocrats - but that Drake would even suggest such a thing!  "Perhaps," he said slyly.  
            In response, Drake began to thrust rapidly, grinding his hips.  Thomas howled in pleasure, losing control of himself completely.  The orgasm was consuming, took him by surprise.  His cock remained untouched.  He hadn't thought such a thing was possible.  It was quite likely that Drake would remain amusing far longer than he had anticipated.  
            It was only after Doughtie was spent that Drake allowed himself to come.  After, Doughtie was drowsy with sleep and drink.  He wanted to curl up next to his bedmate.  But instead, Drake grabbed him roughly by the hair.  Something different was in his face, something dark.  "These practices are not new to you?" he asked.  
            "Nay," replied Thomas, vaguely puzzled by Drake's distance, his formality.  
            "Have you had many lovers, Thomas Doughtie?"  
            So that was it – Drake was jealous!  "Nay," Doughtie lied, and then truthfully, "and none brought me such fulfillment."  
            Drake grunted, apparently satisfied.  He threw his arm around Doughtie, gripping him tightly, the way a child might hold a doll.  Doughtie shivered.  This was trouble – he knew it – and he loved every minute of it.  
            Doughtie prized the feeling of being possessed, protected, but he was restless by nature, and after a few weeks of being Drake's lover, he couldn't resist a harmless flirtation with a tavern maid.  Nothing was to come of it,  he wasn't really interested, but Drake saw.  Drake sulked in silence back to the inn, but when Doughtie went to hang his coat upon the peg, he found himself sprawled ungracefully upon the floor, the recipient of Drake's fist.  "As I suspected, thou art naught but a common whore," Drake raged.  
            In an instant, Doughtie's hand was upon the pommel of his sword.  But then he hesitated, the offended gentleman in him warring with the jaded lover.  This was new, it was different, it was exciting.  Injured honor gave way to curiosity.  If it came down to it, he was certain he could handle himself with Drake – the mariner possessed a natural strength, but Doughtie was faster, more agile, more trained in combat.  
            Drake hauled Doughtie from the floor by his lapels and forced him back onto the bed.  His fists rained down upon the gentleman; Doughtie raised his hands to protect the chiseled lines of his face.  In the morning, his back and sides would be covered with bruises.  
            Drake mounted him, shredding stockings and snapping garters in the process.  So thrilled was Doughtie at this turn of events that he barely noticed that he was being raped.  
            Doughtie was exhausted; he slept well into morning.  He awakened to the smell of freshly baked bread and the scent of flowers filling the room.  Drake had already been to market, had prepared breakfast himself instead of their usual practice of eating from the inn's kitchen.  Drake sat on the side of the bed, fingers brushing Doughtie's hair away from his face, lips tenderly kissing the gentleman's forehead.  "I fear I was too harsh with thee," he said.  
            "She meant nothing to me, Francis.  A moment's amusement.  Not like thee."  
            "Lovest thou me, Thomas?"  
            "Aye," Doughtie replied truthfully, without thinking.  It was true even months later, the morning he left for London, the morning that, for the first time, a bruise was visible upon his face.  It was true years later, when bored, desperate, lonely, he returned to Drake, agreed to go upon his mad venture.  It was true at San Julian as he lay his head upon the block.          


End file.
